[FOOTNOTE 13: bosthoon--a worthless fellow]

To tell the truth, Mrs Kelly's courage waned from the moment of her leaving her own door, and it did not return till she felt herself within it again. Indeed, as she was leaving the gate of Dunmore House, with Anty on her arm, she was already beginning to repent what she was doing; for there were idlers about, and she felt ashamed of carrying off the young heiress. But these feelings vanished the moment she had crossed her own sill. When she had once got Anty home, it was all right. The widow Kelly seldom went out into the world; she seldom went anywhere except to ma.s.s; and, when out, she was a very modest and retiring old lady; but she could face the devil, if necessary, across her own counter.

And so Anty was rescued, for a while, from her brother's persecution.

This happened on the morning on which Martin and Lord Ballindine met together at the lawyer's, when the deeds were prepared which young Kelly's genuine honesty made him think necessary before he eloped with old Sim Lynch's heiress. He would have been rather surprised to hear, at that moment, that his mother had been before him, and carried off his bride elect to the inn!

Anty was soon domesticated. The widow, very properly, wouldn't let her friends, Meg and Jane, ask her any questions at present. Sally had made, on the occasion, a pot of tea sufficient to supply the morning wants of half a regiment, and had fully determined that it should not be wasted. The Kelly girls were both up, and ready to do anything for their friend; so they got her to take a little of Sally's specific, and put her into a warm bed to sleep, quiet and secure from any interruption.

While her guest was sleeping, the widow made up her mind that her best and safest course, for the present, would be, as she expressed it to her daughter, Meg, "to keep her toe in her pump, and say nothing to n.o.body."

"Anty can just stay quiet and asy," she continued, "till we see what Master Barry manes to be afther; he'll find it difficult enough to move her out of this, I'm thinking, and I doubt his trying. As to money matthers, I'll neither meddle nor make, nor will you, mind; so listen to that, girls; and as to Moylan, he's a dacent quiet poor man--but it's bad thrusting any one. Av' he's her agent, however, I s'pose he'll look afther the estate; only, Barry'll be smashing the things up there at the house yonder in his anger and dhrunken fits, and it's a pity the poor girl's property should go to rack. But he's such a born divil, she's lucky to be out of his clutches alive; though, thank the Almighty, that put a good roof over the lone widow this day, he can't clutch her here. Wouldn't I like to see him come to the door and ax for her! And he can't smash the acres, nor the money they say Mulholland has, at Tuam; and faix, av' he does any harm up there at the house, shure enough Anty can make him pay for--it every pot and pan of it--out of his share, and she'll do it, too--av' she's said by me. But mind, I'll neither meddle nor make; neither do you, and then we're safe, and Anty too. And Martin'll be here soon--I wondher what good Dublin'll do him?--They might have the Repale without him, I suppose?--And when he's here, why, av' he's minded to marry her, and she's plased, why, Father Geoghegan may come down, and do it before the whole counthry, and who's ashamed? But there'll be no huggery-muggery, and schaming; that is, av' they're said by me. Faix, I'd like to know who she's to be afeared of, and she undher this roof! I s'pose Martin ain't fool enough to care for what such a fellow as Barry Lynch can do or say--and he with all the Kellys to back him; as shure they would, and why not, from the lord down? Not that I recommend the match; I think Martin a dale betther off as he is, for he's wanting nothing, and he's his own industhry--and, maybe, a handful of money besides. But, as for being afeard--I niver heard yet that a Kelly need be afeard of a Lynch in Dunmore."

In this manner did Mrs Kelly express the various thoughts that ran through her head, as she considered Anty's affairs; and if we could a.n.a.lyse the good lady's mind, we should probably find that the result of her reflections was a pleasing a.s.surance that she could exercise the Christian virtues of charity and hospitality towards Anty, and, at the same time, secure her son's wishes and welfare, without subjecting her own name to any obloquy, or putting herself to any loss or inconvenience. She determined to put no questions to Anty, nor even to allude to her brother, unless spoken to on the subject; but, at the same time, she stoutly resolved to come to no terms with Barry, and to defy him to the utmost, should he attempt to invade her in her own territories.

After a sound sleep Anty got up, much strengthened and refreshed, and found the two Kelly girls ready to condole with, or congratulate her, according to her mood and spirits. In spite of their mother's caution, they were quite prepared for gossiping, as soon as Anty showed the slightest inclination that way; and, though she at first was afraid to talk about her brother, and was even, from kindly feeling, unwilling to do so, the luxury of such an opportunity of unrestrained confidence overcame her; and, before the three had been sitting together for a couple of hours, she had described the whole interview, as well as the last drunken midnight visit of Barry's to her own bed-room, which, to her imagination, was the most horrible of all the horrors of the night.

Poor Anty. She cried vehemently that morning--more in sorrow for her brother, than in remembrance of her own fears, as she told her friends how he had threatened to shut her up in a mad-house, and then to murder her, unless she promised him not to marry; and when she described how brutally he had struck her, and how, afterwards, he had crept to her room, with his red eyes and swollen face, in the dead of the night, and, placing his hot mouth close to her ears, had dreadfully sworn that she should die, if she thought of Martin Kelly as her husband, she trembled as though she was in an ague fit.

The girls said all they could to comfort her, and they succeeded in a great degree; but they could not bring her to talk of Martin. She shuddered whenever his name was mentioned, and they began to fear that Barry's threat would have the intended effect, and frighten her from the match. However, they kindly talked of other things--of how impossible it was that she should go back to Dunmore House, and how comfortable and snug they would make her at the inn, till she got a home for herself; of what she should do, and of all their little household plans together; till Anty, when she could forget her brother's threats for a time, seemed to be more comfortable and happy than she had been for years.

In vain did the widow that morning repeatedly invoke Meg and Jane, first one and then the other, to a.s.sist in her commercial labours. In vain were Sally and Kate commissioned to bring them down. If, on some urgent behest, one of them darted down to mix a dandy of punch, or weigh a pound of sugar, when the widow was imperatively employed elsewhere, she was upstairs again, before her mother could look about her; and, at last, Mrs Kelly was obliged to content herself with the reflection that girls would be girls, and that it was "nathural and right they shouldn't wish to lave Anty alone the first morning, and she sthrange to the place."

At five o'clock, the widow, as was her custom, went up to her dinner; and Meg was then obliged to come down and mind the shop, till her sister, having dined, should come down and relieve guard. She had only just ensconced herself behind the counter, when who should walk into the shop but Barry Lynch.

Had Meg seen an ogre, or the enemy of all mankind himself, she could not, at the moment, have been more frightened; and she stood staring at him, as if the sudden loss of the power of motion alone prevented her from running away.

"I want to see Mrs Kelly," said Barry; "d'ye hear? I want to see your mother; go and tell her."

But we must go back, and see how Mr Lynch had managed to get up, and pa.s.s his morning.

VII. MR BARRY LYNCH MAKES A MORNING CALL

It was noon before Barry first opened his eyes, and discovered the reality of the headache which the night's miserable and solitary debauch had entailed on him. For, in spite of the oft-repeated a.s.surance that there is not a headache in a hogshead of it, whiskey punch will sicken one, as well as more expensive and more fashionable potent drinks. Barry was very sick when he first awoke; and very miserable, too; for vague recollections of what he had done, and doubtful fears of what he might have done, crowded on him. A drunken man always feels more anxiety about what he has not done in his drunkenness, than about what he has; and so it was with Barry. He remembered having used rough language with his sister, but he could not remember how far he had gone. He remembered striking her, and he knew that the servant had come in; but he could not remember how, or with what he had struck her, or whether he had done so more than once, or whether she had been much hurt. He could not even think whether he had seen her since or not; he remembered being in the garden after she had fallen, and drinking again after that, but nothing further. Surely, he could not have killed her? he could not even have hurt her very much, or he would have heard of it before this. If anything serious had happened, the servants would have taken care that he should have heard enough about it ere now. Then he began to think what o'clock it could be, and that it must be late, for his watch was run down; the general fate of drunkards, who are doomed to utter ignorance of the hour at which they wake to the consciousness of their miserable disgrace. He feared to ring the bell for the servant; he was afraid to ask the particulars of last night's work; so he turned on his pillow, and tried to sleep again. But in vain. If he closed his eyes, Anty was before them, and he was dreaming, half awake, that he was trying to stifle her, and that she was escaping, to tell all the world of his brutality and cruelty. This happened over and over again; for when he dozed but for a minute, the same thing re-occurred, as vividly as before, and made even his waking consciousness preferable to the visions of his disturbed slumbers. So, at last, he roused himself, and endeavoured to think what he should do.

Whilst he was sitting up in his bed, and reflecting that he must undress himself before he could dress himself--for he had tumbled into bed with most of his clothes on--Terry's red head appeared at the door, showing an anxiety, on the part of its owner, to see if "the masther"

was awake, but to take no step to bring about such a state, if, luckily, he still slept.

"What's the time, Terry?" said Lynch, frightened, by his own state, into rather more courtesy than he usually displayed to those dependent on him.

"Well then, I b'lieve it's past one, yer honer."

"The d----l it is! I've such a headache. I was screwed last night; eh, Terry?"

"I b'lieve yer war, yer honer."

"What o'clock was it when I went to bed?"

"Well then, I don't rightly know, Mr Barry; it wasn't only about ten when I tuk in the last hot wather, and I didn't see yer honer afther that."

"Well; tell Miss Anty to make me a cup of tea, and do you bring it up here." This was a feeler. If anything was the matter with Anty, Terry would be sure to tell him now; but he only said, "Yis, yer honer," and retreated.

Barry now comforted himself with the reflection that there was no great harm done, and that though, certainly, there had been some row between him and Anty, it would probably blow over; and then, also, he began to reflect that, perhaps, what he had said and done, would frighten her out of her match with Kelly.

In the meantime. Terry went into the kitchen, with the news that "masther was awake, and axing for tay." Biddy had considered herself ent.i.tled to remain all the morning at the inn, having, in a manner, earned a right to be idle for that day, by her activity during the night; and the other girl had endeavoured to enjoy the same luxury, for she had been found once or twice during the morning, ensconced in the kitchen, under Sally's wing; but Mrs Kelly had hunted her back, to go and wait on her master, giving her to understand that she would not receive the whole household.

"And ye're afther telling him where Miss Anty's gone, Terry?" inquired the injured fair one.

"Divil a tell for me thin,--shure, he may find it out hisself, widout my telling him."

"Faix, it's he'll be mad thin, when he finds she's taken up with the likes of the widdy Kelly!"

"And ain't she betther there, nor being murthered up here? He'd be killing her out and out some night."

"Well, but Terry, he's not so bad as all that; there's worse than him, and ain't it rasonable he shouldn't be quiet and asy, and she taking up with the likes of Martin Kelly?"

"May be so; but wouldn't she be a dale happier with Martin than up here wid him? Any ways it don't do angering him, so, get him the tay, Judy."

It was soon found that this was easier said than done, for Anty, in her confusion, had taken away the keys in her pocket, and there was no tea to be had.

The bell was now rung, and, as Barry had gradually re-a.s.sured himself, rung violently; and Terry, when he arrived distracted at the bed-room door, was angrily asked by his thirsty master why the tea didn't appear? The truth was now obliged to come out, or at any rate, part of it: so Terry answered, that Miss Anty was out, and had the keys with her.

Miss Anty was so rarely out, that Barry instantly trembled again. Had she gone to a magistrate, to swear against him? Had she run away from him? Had she gone off with Martin?

"Where the d----l's she gone, Terry?" said he, in his extremity.

"Faix, yer honour, thin, I'm not rightly knowing; but I hear tell she's down at the widow Kelly's."

"Who told you, you fool?"

"Well thin, yer honer, it war Judy."

"And where's Judy?"

And it ended in Judy's being produced, and the two of them, at length, explained to their master, that the widow had come up early in the morning and fetched her away; and Judy swore "that not a know she knowed how it had come about, or what had induced the widow to come, or Miss Anty to go, or anything about it; only, for shure, Miss Anty was down there, snug enough, with Miss Jane and Miss Meg; and the widdy war in her tantrums, and wouldn't let ony dacent person inside the house-door--barring Biddy. And that wor all she knowed av' she wor on the book."

The secret was now out. Anty had left him, and put herself under the protection of Martin Kelly's mother; had absolutely defied him, after all his threats of the preceding night. What should he do now! All his hatred for her returned again, all his anxious wishes that she might be somehow removed from his path, as an obnoxious stumbling-block. A few minutes ago, he was afraid he had murdered her, and he now almost wished that he had done so. He finished dressing himself, and then sat down in the parlour, which had been the scene of his last night's brutality, to concoct fresh schemes for the persecution of his sister.

In the meantime, Terry rushed down to the inn, demanding the keys, and giving Mrs Kelly a fearful history of his master's anger. This she very wisely refrained from retailing, but, having procured the keys, gave them to the messenger, merely informing him, that "thanks to G.o.d's kind protection, Miss Anty was tolerably well over the last night's work, and he might tell his master so."

This message Terry thought it wisest to suppress, so he took the breakfast up in silence, and his master asked no more questions. He was very sick and pale, and could eat nothing; but he drank a quant.i.ty of tea, and a couple of gla.s.ses of brandy-and-water, and then he felt better, and again began to think what measures he should take, what scheme he could concoct, for stopping this horrid marriage, and making his sister obedient to his wishes. "Confound her," he said, almost aloud, as he thought, with bitter vexation of spirit, of her uninc.u.mbered moiety of the property, "confound them all!" grinding his teeth, and meaning by the "all" to include with Anty his father, and every one who might have a.s.sisted his father in making the odious will, as well as his own attorney in Tuam, who wouldn't find out some legal expedient by which he could set it aside. And then, as he thought of the shameful persecution of which he was the victim, he kicked the fender with impotent violence, and, as the noise of the falling fire irons added to his pa.s.sion, he reiterated his kicks till the unoffending piece of furniture was smashed; and then with manly indignation he turned away to the window.

But breaking the furniture, though it was what the widow predicted of him, wouldn't in any way mend matters, or a.s.sist him in getting out of his difficulties. What was he to do? He couldn't live on 200 a-year; he couldn't remain in Dunmore, to be known by every one as Martin Kelly's brother-in-law; he couldn't endure the thoughts of dividing the property with such "a low-born huxtering blackguard", as he called him over and over again. He couldn't stay there, to be beaten by him in the course of legal proceedings, or to give him up amicable possession of what ought to have been--what should have been his--what he looked upon as his own. He came back, and sat down again over the fire, contemplating the debris of the fender, and turning all these miserable circ.u.mstances over in his mind. After remaining there till five o'clock, and having fortified himself with sundry gla.s.ses of wine, he formed his resolution. He would make one struggle more; he would first go down to the widow, and claim his sister, as a poor simple young woman, inveigled away from her natural guardian; and, if this were unsuccessful, as he felt pretty sure it would be, he would take proceedings to prove her a lunatic. If he failed, he might still delay, and finally put off the marriage; and he was sure he could get some attorney to put him in the way of doing it, and to undertake the work for him. His late father's attorney had been a fool, in not breaking the will, or at any rate trying it, and he would go to Daly. Young Daly, he knew, was a sharp fellow, and wanted practice, and this would just suit him. And then, if at last he found that nothing could be done by this means, if his sister and the property _must_ go from him, he would compromise the matter with the bridegroom, he would meet him half way, and, raising what money he could on his share of the estate, give leg bail to his creditors, and go to some place abroad, where tidings of Dunmore would never reach him. What did it matter what people said?

he should never hear it. He would make over the whole property to Kelly, on getting a good life income out of it. Martin was a prudent fellow, and would jump at such a plan. As he thought of this, he even began to wish that it was done; he pictured to himself the easy pleasures, the card-tables, the billiard-rooms, and cafes of some Calais or Boulogne; pleasures which he had never known, but which had been so glowingly described to him; and he got almost cheerful again as he felt that, in any way, there might be bright days yet in store for him.

He would, however, still make the last effort for the whole stake. It would be time enough to give in, and make the best of a _pis aller_ [14], when he was forced to do so. If beaten, he would make use of Martin Kelly; but he would first try if he couldn't prove him to be a swindling adventurer, and his sister to be an idiot.